


Flash of the Blade

by Riachinko



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Fluffy Ending, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, Swordplay, Tittyfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13569312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riachinko/pseuds/Riachinko
Summary: LeFou ~really~ likes sword fighting with Gaston.





	Flash of the Blade

**Author's Note:**

> Gaston's POV and a fluffy happy ending? Who am I.

Sweat and feral growls.

The crashing together of heavy swords.

What's exciting about this is that the crowd doesn't pick favourites. It's a fair - well, not entirely _fair_ , I _am_ me - fight.

LeFou gets in a skilled jab and I parry left, missing his blade. He advances on me and tries it again, doesn't think I'll expect it. Faces in the crowd yell at him to get me and our blades clash as I counter; the clank of iron ringing high throughout the tavern. It's even louder than than the cheers, so I lift a hand to encourage them to roar louder!

“Get him, LeFou!”

It's an entertaining duel, LeFou doesn't get enough praise on the daily for his talents, but right here, right now, he's a fighter! He pushes left and I dodge to the right, sword raised to guard and slap his away. He comes close to grazing my chest and I come close to grazing his; we bring our swords up to meet at a cross and both of us withdraw.

I can see it on his face already: that rosy-cheeked look of pleasure mixed with exhaustion. Soft curls of hair frame his face, damp with sweat. He's nearly at his peak.

“Gaston!” the people cheer now, “Gaston!” and it spurs me on to move faster, lunging forward in an attack that has LeFou stumbling backwards, eyes wide as his heel rolls over an empty mug that some careless drunken patron has left behind. He thrusts out his sword, but it's too late - I grab him by the hand to keep him steady before he falls; spin him and throw him to the opposite side of the table.

He gets his balance surprisingly quickly - that dark-eyed smirk of his growing in his confidence as our audience cries out. Our swords meet in a caress, and then hit _en séquence_. We dance to one side of the table and back, until finally--

I swing my blade and advance until we're very nearly side by side, chest facing chest. The dull edge of my sword’s blade is at his neck. It's over.

His arms rest at his sides, still holding his sword weakly, letting it drag along the table. I can feel the faint plume of hot, alcohol-tainted breath hit my neck; can hear the tiny whimper he makes as he shivers just once under the blade.

Our eyes lock.

His are pleading, begging for me: big, beautiful, brown. Imploring me to take him somewhere private; eyes as coy and expressive as any whore’s.

I give him my practiced cold glare - one I used often in the military - and shake my head subtly enough for only him to read: _no_.

He lets his sword clatter to the table as the room of drunks cheers my name. I withdraw my sword and sheath it; bow and thank the sea of faces for their support. The women in the room swoon as I take a step down onto the bench; hovering around me in a fit to be the first to capture my attention, but I ignore them to extend a sweaty palm to help LeFou down. He takes it eagerly; wraps his fingers over mine tightly. His energy is contagious - in that moment, as our fingers touch, all I can think of is having him pinned beneath me, hands in mine used for leverage as I fuck into him.

“It was an obvious victory in the making - nobody's as skilled with a sword as Gaston!” LeFou cries, lifting my arm in the air for applause.

He smirks teasingly at me as I release him, “That was fun,” and heads to the back of the bar to order drinks.

“Amazing, Gaston!” says a triplet - Paulette. She lifts her dress to run over to me.

“Splendid!” says Laurette, joining her.

Claudette takes my forearm and leads me to my chair by the fire. I flex and lift her into the air and she screams with giddy pleasure, hanging from my bicep before I sit and bring her with me down into my lap.

“So strong!” she gasps. “Gaston, you are the _living end!_ ”

“The way you threw that sword around--” coos one of her sisters - Laurette, probably. She giggles and sighs, and the other one - Paulette - takes my left hand in her own for a massage that's much too delicate, unsatisfactory. “You have talented hands.”

By the time I'm growing weary of the bimbettes, LeFou comes around with our steins of beer and I happily shake my hands free to grab mine. At a table farther from the fire, Stanley shouts the girls over and reluctantly they leave my side to join their brother’s and make room for others - a young brunette of maybe eighteen years and an older blonde widow, it doesn't matter who they are, really. They’re attractive.

“Ladies,” LeFou says with a knowing smile, “if you admired Captain Gaston's besting of me tonight, you'll be awed by the story of how he single-handedly disarmed an entire company under the Marquis of Minas…”

I puff up my chest and revel in the story of my own praises. The women talk at me throughout LeFou’s rehearsed boasting, and I pretend to listen with “yeses” and “of courses,” and when I finally run out of vaguely fitting things so say in reply, I drink my drink.

The beer feels great going down - I'm still overheated from the sword fight and there's no cooling the tavern down when it's as busy as it is; no ridding myself of the heat in my chest as LeFou takes his place behind my chair to reward me with a proper massage.

I shrug my Captain’s jacket off of my shoulders, just enough to give him better access. And those hands-- _those_ are the most truly talented hands in the room.

I close my eyes and moan under his ministrations, giving into the feeling of those hands kneading at the base of my neck, digging harshly into my trapezius muscles in tandem. For a moment it’s as if I've lost my hearing. Although I can see mouths moving and chattering before me, my only focus is on LeFou's voice when he says, “You're so tense. I would have thought sparring would have loosened you up some.”

“It did,” I mutter, eyes slipping closed. “Only my neck is stiff.”

“Mm, is that so,” he hums, exhaling particularly loudly as he leans into say, “I’m stiff all over.”

“LeFou--”

He’s closer now, lips very nearly pressed to the top of my head as he says lowly, “You make me crazy.”

I survey the tavern to be sure that no one has picked up on LeFou’s vulgarity, but see only the barmaid heading our way with a tray full of ale and Tom, Dick and Stanley following closely on her heels. The room seems stuffy and stale now that the patrons have settled down; my female company have busied themselves with their drinks and woman-talk, while other familiar faces go from table to table to speak with friends and neighbours.

“Just in time, Tom!” I cheer as the crew joins us, Dick and Stanley grabbing available stools at the small table near my seat. Tom remains standing, wavering back and forth in slight inebriation and antsiness since I’ve addressed him specifically. “A round of swordplay if you would. LeFou here is bored.”

The intensity of LeFou’s massage grinds to a halt, and through his hands still resting on my shoulders, I can tell that he’s straightened up, tense and guarded.

Tom, however, grins wide, eyes alight at my request. He nods. “I’m not very practiced lately - might give you a chance to sweep a victory yet, LeFou,” he laughs. “But I haven’t brought a sword.”

I shift onto my right hip to grab my sword in its scabbard from my left, patting LeFou’s hand as I move to shake him off. My sword has been with me since I was a young lad; polished nightly and its brilliant golden guard meticulously maintained. So when I hand it off to a quickly-sobered Tom, it comes with a warning:

“Be gentle with her.”

“Ah,” Tom roars quick as a whip, “I think LeFou’ll be alright!”

The men laugh heartily, and I’ll admit that I crack a wider smile than perhaps I ought to, myself. All in good fun--

“Haw haw,” LeFou scoffs, digging his fingers into my neck once more as I goad him on. He leans in closer, then, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. His left hand reaches to cup my chin as he peers over my shoulder at the women by my side.

“Ladies,” he drawls, “keep Gaston entertained for me?”

They titter and nod, falling over themselves to say, “Oh yes” and “Of course.”

I try not to pay too much attention as Tom and LeFou shuffle back and forth behind me, turning my attentions instead to a buxom young redhead who has just joined me with a glass of whiskey.

She seems particularly interested in my accomplishments as a hunter, and I regret not having LeFou free to act out the story of my one-armed brawl with a brown bear - the shrill clashing of metal drowns out my attempts. The young lady at my side is feeding me cheese and sharing from her glass; still, I can't help but glance over at LeFou when he enters my peripherals.

He's a pleasure to watch, feet moving gracefully to counter Tom's advances. The flicks of his wrist have his sword dancing whimsically through the air, not so much a duel as a beautiful display of prowess. It's no wonder to me that the tavern patrons are able to cheer just as jovially for LeFou as they do for me.

I have to look away, lest my eyes wander too obviously over his body.

I let the redhead - Marie, as I've learned - feed me small bits of smoked trout, and for a moment I'm content to ignore my friends’ battle.

But soon I can hear the swelling of shouts from the crowd; the distinct clack of a blade scraping against a backguard, and then my own sword is skidding across the floor to my feet. The curious thing is, the blade is partially stained crimson.

“LeFou! You're bleeding!” Stanley says aloud, amidst cheers and applause..

I nearly drop the poor girl straight off of my knee when I turn to see it.

LeFou’s hand raised in the air, sword held high in triumph. He looks surprised; lowers his hand to examine the wound. “Oh.”

It isn't a deep cut, just a streak of red across the back of one hand. LeFou doesn't seem overly concerned about it, but it's as good an excuse as any to retire for the night with him in tow.

“I-I'm sorry,” Tom says dumbly as I excuse myself from Marie's attentions and rise from my seat, stretching my arms back and cracking my knuckles in his direction. “A simple mistake. Very sorry.”

I look on, bemused and stern - intimidation is the best way to keep subordinates - but LeFou just undermines my intensity with a chuckle.

“I knew what I was getting into,” he smiles. “It was a good match.”

A barmaid comes ‘round with a shot of whiskey for LeFou, and I can't help but watch his Adam’s apple Bob as he downs the drink in a smooth gulp. His hair has been tossed loose in its ribbon; his cheeks are nearly as rosy as the back of his wounded hand. Despite my best efforts, he's always enchanting me.

I slip both my sword into its scabbard and my arm around his shoulder.

“I suppose we'd better head out and get you bandaged up, LeFou.”

He fishes a livre out of his pocket and slaps it down onto the table. “If you think it's best, I can't refuse.”

  
  


As soon as we get in, LeFou busies himself by stoking the fire, setting a pot of water over it to boil. He makes his way to the nearby pantry to grab some linen in which to wrap his palm. I admire him work; so task-oriented and focused. Self-dependant.

“I could take care of that, you know,” I say, delicately; moving behind him to take the folded linen bandage from him.

“Were you going to?”

I exhale a laugh and tear a small piece of linen for my sword before tearing a longer, thinner strip for LeFou’s hand. While the water boils, I blot the fabric with oil and polish my sword, stroking her delicately back and forth and making a real show of it - I know LeFou has his eyes on me, after all.

“Can you imagine how much blood this sword has seen over the years…”

I step behind LeFou, placing a kiss in his hair. I usher him further into the room so I can monitor the fire, putting my sword away as I stare absently down into the flames. He takes a seat on the sofa and I can hear the heels of his boots kicked up on the table.

“I never thought it would be yours.”

When at last the water has begun to bubble, I lift the pot from the fire and dip the linen in.

“We have no aloe or ointments,” I say, turning back to LeFou, joining him where he sits. He allows me to take his hand; to dab at his wound with the wet linen. He flinches only slightly, and luckily there isn’t much blood to clean up.

“It’s a mere scratch,” he says softly, “it barely even hurts.”

Cradling his palm, running my thumb over his knuckles, I bring his hand up to my lips. LeFou sucks in a breath as I run the flat of my tongue over the wound; iron and sweat flooding my taste buds as I dab once more at him with the wet linen, folding a dry piece over the back of his hand, around his palm twice and knotting it off tight. I place a kiss against his bandage, lingering there and taking in the sound of LeFou’s slow, steady breath.

“You put up with so much more than you get credit for.”

My eyes flicker up to his just in time to see his expression fade from doey-eyed awe to skeptical. “You’re right, I do. All those women--”

I snort.

“I’ll need to pick one of them someday.”

“Mmh, I know, ” he sighs. It’s then I realize - as I look past long brown lashes and follow LeFou’s eyes down - that I’m still holding his hand, the pad of my thumb continuously swiping over the four of his knuckles. He grins, “When I marry, I plan on hiring a skilled assassin to murder her. As a mourning widower, I won’t be expected to dote on other women.”

I grin at this as well, but the mood in the room is heavy and uncomfortable, even for myself.

I still don’t let go of his hand.

“Don’t say such things,” I scold. “Women are beautiful creatures.”

“So are deer, and you mount their heads on your walls,” he rolls his eyes. “They aren’t for me.”

We’re silent together for a moment, listening to the fire crackle not ten feet away. I drop his hand and remove my jacket and waistcoat at last, growing too warm to bear it any longer. The heat has reached my cheeks, and I’m sure if LeFou looked up, he would notice.

But instead, he continues, voice breaking, “I was joking, you know, about the assassin.”

I blink, somewhat insulted. Of course he was.

“Of course you were,” I say.

“...I _actually_ plan on staging my own death and escaping to the forest to live as a hermit.”

His deadpan has me laughing out loud - the kind of belly laugh that endeared me to him in the first place, all those years ago. I slap his back; throw him down against the cushions. LeFou laughs too, even as he topples down, and when next he opens his eyes, they’re wet and glimmer with flashes of golden orange from the firelight.

And then we're panting together, catching our breath from laughing too much and caught up in too much emotion. He bites his lip, and for the second time this evening I find myself subtly shaking my head, silently asking him to stop.

“Gaston, I--”

I can see his tongue behind his front teeth, the “L” unspilled from his lips. I cut him off before he says something he'll regret.

“We should stop our swordplay in the tavern,” my hands sprawl across his thighs now. “It’s getting dangerous.”

LeFou turns wild, brow worried, and I prevent his attempt at sitting up with a firm palm to his chest. “But Gaston,” he whines, “you’re ten times the swordsman that _Tom_ is. You’d never harm me.”

I close the distance between us with my tongue at his lips, barging in between them for a deep kiss. Our tongues roll together and makes the heat of arousal settle in my navel. _Oh_ , the way he melts beneath me; gasps around my tongue and whimpers softly when I pull away just enough to breathe, “I don’t mean _that_...”

My hand snakes down LeFou's body - from his chest, over the curve of his gut; his hip, his cock. He's half hard under my touch already. Maybe has been all night.

“You enjoy it too much...To the point of foolishness.”

He scoffs at me - a defiant “tch” - but he would never deny it. He knows as well as I that a sword fight at the tavern sends the adrenaline tearing through him, and that if he's persuasive and lucky enough, the evening usually ends up in fucking.

I push myself up off of him, then; stand to draw my sword.

“If you’re going to behave foolishly, LeFou,” I say,turning on my heel to dramatically point the blade at his throat, “do it only when we’re alone.”

His eyes meet mine in an instant. He looks absolutely _hungry_ for it.

“What is it that you like about swords, LeFou? There’s a lot to find exceptional about them, of course, but is it--”

He chuckles under his breath. A sly look in his eyes as he gnaws his lower lip has me wanting to absolutely _wreck_ him--

“I like a little bit of danger as much as the next guy, but it isn't the sword, you ass.” He huffs to blow a curl of hair from his eyes. “It's that _you_ have the sword. You could hurt me, but you're too skilled to ever do it unintentionally. I keep wondering if someday you might mean to.”

“And that's exciting? You find pain pleasurable?”  
  
When he doesn't reply, I grow irritable and the smirk on his face only serves to get me going.

“On your knees, then, facing the sofa,” I growl at him, “if you want to feel pain so badly, don't make me wait to smack you.”

LeFou practically oozes from the sofa onto the floor, resting on his knees and bent over the cushion enough for me to--

_Whack!_

I swat the flat of my blade against his ass and the racket that tears from his throat is completely new to me. In the military, men were sometimes reprimanded by flogging, but even then, I'd never heard anything as erotic as the cry ringing in my ears from LeFou. I want to hear it again, and again, so I - _Whack!_ \- and again he cries out.

It's a bit of a yelp mixed with my name, enveloped by quick, breathless pants.

_Whack!_

He buries his face in the sofa cushions, grappling at them for dear life.

_Whack!_

“That's-- that's enough,” he moans while I’m raising my sword for more. He's trembling - his backside is swelling a brilliant red - but he sounds blissfully sated and distant.

I join him on the floor, sword placed gently on the sofa to which I lean my back. I draw him to me and he loses his balance as he falls beside my legs onto his bottom, hissing.

“Gaston--”

“I hope you’re not too sore for when I fuck you into the floorboards,” I grin. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

His fingers make fast work of his scarf, unknotting the bow from his neck. His eyes slant in mischievous glee, looking me up and down; leaning into peck my cheek and whisper,

“You bested me in our duel, so as a prize, we can do whatever you’d like with me.”

“You're off to a good start, then. Continue undressing.”

He starts with his jacket - hands tugging at each sleeve as he eases his way free - then his waistcoat. He leaves on his chemise while fiddling with the drawstring of his trousers. I pull at mine as well - they're growing tight and I'm aching to take them off. He ends up mostly nude, save for his stockings and top, and I tut at him,

“You're going to need to remove your top for what I have in mind, my friend.”

I watch him pick delicately at the lacing of his chemise, frilled cuffs flowing gracefully with his movements until it's loose enough to pull over his head. Dark waves fall from the ribbon in his hair as it finally comes untied; spill over his bare shoulders as he tosses his clothes onto the sofa.

He grins at me, but his expression drops as I prod at his upper arms. “You’ve put on weight.”

“How would you know,” he blushes in anger.

I shush him and kiss his forehead. “Don't mistake that for an insult, LeFou.”

I push him down; let myself fall on top of him, boxing him in against the floorboards with one hand on either side of LeFou's ears.

“I love how soft you are...you look perfect down there like this.”

I sit atop him, naked thighs tight on either side of LeFou’s, watching him squirm underneath me when I lean slightly back. My weight settles at his groin; he peers down past his gut and draws in a breath at the site of my cock hard and beading, nestled against his.

His cock twitching into my hip.

The first touch of my hand to it makes his muscles tense; makes him loudly release that breath he'd been holding. He grinds up against me - glorious friction - our hips crash together like they were made to fit.

My right hand reaches out, itching, needing to touch. I thumb over the stubble of LeFou's chin; he keens into me. I dip my pointer finger into the corner of his mouth and he opens up for me: one finger, then two, pushing his tongue down and making him salivate around me.

He murmurs gentle “mmphs” and “ahs” into the air, cock jumping in my lap when I add a third finger, drawing them in and out of his mouth lewdly.

“Do you feel perfect?” 

LeFou makes a noise deep in his throat; nods, eyes shut tight.

When I withdraw my fingers, they're dripping and slick with spit - acceptable lubricant for--

“ _Ah_!!”

I grip us together, hot, sticky flesh under euphoric pressure in my grasp. LeFou's eyes snap open, dark and focused on the ceiling as he gasps in a breath; shudders out what sounds like my name.

I thrust slowly into my fist - back and forth and back - locking us together, both of us grunting each time the head of my cock rubs against LeFou’s; the length of LeFou's cock dragging against mine, over and over--

“If I keep going like this I might finish,” I huff, loosening my grasp on us ever so slightly.

“That's--” LeFou sounds out of his mind, “That's kind of the point, isn't it?” He smirks up at me, pupils blown wide.

“In time.”

He protests as I release us, humping up against me to make up for the lack of friction. “ _Gaston_ , please…”

My hands find LeFou's pecs, palming over dewey skin, over matted chest hair. He looks up at me, dopey-eyed and heavy-lidded and growing impatient - his hips haven't stopped rocking since I took my hand away. I flick a nipple to reprimand him, although it seems that's within his pleasure-pain threshold, because despite his breath hitching, he grins stupidly.

I paw at him; thumbs feather light against either rosy bud, rubbing circles into him to make them hard. He arches his back; presses himself into my touch. It's good for the mind, eliciting this kind of reaction from another man - having this kind of affect. It makes me feel infallible. “Heh.”

And when at last I'm feeling as impatient as he is, I grab at his chest hard, fondling, squeezing his pecs together.

“Show off for me,” I purr.

I keep the majority of my weight up off of LeFou as I edge my body closer to his mouth, kneeling astride him, watching with slitted eyes as he worries his lip. The glow of the fire accentuates his curves marvelously: the fullness of his cheeks glowing subtly orange; his soft, broad shoulders highlighted gold where my shadow doesn't hit them.

He presses his bandaged hand tentatively to his chest - hissing at his discomfort - then the other, emulating what I'd done.

“That's good,” I mumble, mind too preoccupied with thoughts of how I want to use him. I push forward just slightly more, until my cock settles between LeFou's pecs. I rock my hips lazily to show LeFou what I've got in mind.

“I've been dying to have you like this,” I say, voice level and low and predatory. “Show me those gorgeous tits of yours.”

There's a shift in LeFou's expression, from surprised to embarrassed to aroused. He complies, slowly, pressing his pecs together, cupping the undersides of them and lifting.

It's a lewd display.

I swallow hard; revel in how obedient and obscene LeFou is allowing himself to be. His face darkens, and even through the shadows cast onto him, I can tell that he’s blushing furiously. My cheeks feel hot, and I’m sure I’m blushing too.  
  
“That's right,” I sneer, rocking my hips against the valley of LeFou's chest, the head of my cock moving back and forth over hot, sweaty flesh; dragging around a sticky trail of fluid.

LeFou pants desperately; tries to reach the tip of my cock with his tongue - he's so close.

“You're impossible,” he whines in failure. “How much do you expect I can do?”

He bucks his hips into the air against nothing, and I simply laugh in reply, mussing his hair; letting my hands stroke down his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw…

I continue to grind my way into the crevice that LeFou has made with his chest, plundering between his cleavage.

“Yes,” I drawl out shamelessly. It’s a bit of an awkward position, but it doesn't stop me from rocking my hips back, withdrawing partially and slipping back in again. LeFou holds his position, clasping his hands firmly overtop his chest to form a complete hole for me to stab into.  
  
“Yes,” I growl and groan, deep in my throat.

Pure _euphoria_.

My hips move assuredly in and out, the sweat from LeFou's chest acting as a modest lubricant where my precome hasn't graced.  
  
LeFou looks downright drunk on the way he's being used; his dark locks are plastered to his reddened face and flutter about his shoulders with every push of my hips forcing him further back on the cold wooden floor. That little pink tongue of his continues its effort to lick any part of me that it can reach.

He looks lost in it; he looks out of it - completely captivated by the motion of my cock through the valley between his pecs.

The sight of him makes me smirk; cocky and proud of LeFou's strict obedience.

For as simple as this act is - more basic and tenuous than a common hand job, even - it's dizzyingly arousing, wholly gratifying to lay my eyes on LeFou - my confidant, my dearest friend - straining his head up, tongue out trying to lick across my leaking swollen tip.

Our eyes meet.

I'm close.

“Do you want it?” I ask, plunging my left fingers into his mouth as I continue to thrust into him.

LeFou's glazed eyes widen, caught off guard but willingly slicking me up. “Oh,” he gasps around my hand, “mm-hm.”

My free hand grips him by the back of the head while the other withdraws. I reach back to grip him as best I can, wrapping my spit-slick hand around his straining cock - _hard_ \- pumping him tightly enough to be able to get him off as quickly as I'm about to--

He whines and moans - God, what a sound! He lolls his tongue out farther past his lips to keep himself from babbling, but the sultry whines that rip from his throat as I thrust faster into his cleavage affects me in all the right ways.

I reach orgasm with little warning - just a stifled grunt as my fist digs into LeFou’s hair - and LeFou squeezes his eyes closed tight, letting warm streaks of ejaculate jet across his face, landing on his tongue if he’s lucky. It's all LeFou needs to push him over the edge as well, pulsating in my hand, gasping out and coughing as his orgasm spills over my fist and onto his stomach.

There’s a sloppy white trail from LeFou’s chin to his chest that I drag back and forth through his pecs; still humping lazily into him, wringing out every little bit of come.

The sight is too much, I can't stop staring. It makes my heart race - I must look like a madman: chest heaving, hair falling from its ribbon, framing the look of wild admiration I'm sure I'm showing.

I want to keep him like this.

I want to fuck until we’re both raw and sore and exhausted.

I bet LeFou feels it, too, because when his tired eyes meet mine, a grin spreads across his face in an instant. He lets his hands drop from his pecs, leaving faintly red lines in his skin where he’s pressed too firmly; where his nails have dug in.

“You really want to stop sword fighting in the tavern?” he chortles.

The fire behind us has begun to die down, and I feel cold - wet and messy and cold.

It's wonderful.

We yawn in tandem; I raise to my feet on shaky legs and offer him a hand up. Standing silently together by the dying fire, I get an overwhelming sense of satisfaction - much more intense than any afterglow I've felt with a woman. Different still from any I've ever experienced with LeFou himself.

He turns to walk away from me - always uncharacteristically bashful after a good fuck - but I grab him by the wrist, drawing his wounded hand up into a kiss. Then another kiss. Then one to the inside of his wrist, until he's laughing, clearly confused by my intention.

“Let's get ourselves clean before we end up even more gross,” he says, eyebrow raised.

I watch him collect our clothing, walking about naked with it tucked underneath his arm. He flexes his sore hand; attends to the fire. So independent. Always taking care of me.

I don't know about love, but I can't imagine my life without him.

He looks back at me.

“Tell me how you plan to stage your death,” I say. “Perhaps I could grow to enjoy hermit life.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up with your thoughts in the comments or message me @riachinko on Twitter or @rudigerblues on Tumblr ^o^


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